


Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall

by indigobunting6



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, Everybody Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Growing Old Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society) Lives, Nostalgia, One Shot, One of My Favorites, Poetry, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Welton, Success, anderperry, mentions anxiety, nyc apartment, poet / playwright, post-helton, snow in the city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28218657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigobunting6/pseuds/indigobunting6
Summary: Years later, Todd and Neil are living together and Todd reminisces over his life (most of which includes Neil).
Relationships: Todd Anderson/Neil Perry
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Whisper Me Words In The Shape of a Bay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276394) by [Meduseld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld). 



> This is a sequel/retelling of Whisper Me Words In The Shape of a Bay, from Todd's perspective. The original story, written by Meduseld, is wonderful and I definitely recommend reading it first if you haven't already.

Todd and Neil grew close almost immediately after meeting one another. By November of that first year at Welton, they had become virtually inseparable.

Todd preferred to think that it was evident from the beginning (even if it wasn’t, least of all to them). It was easier to replay the memories this way, without being enraged with himself at seventeen, or regretting the missed opportunities that, at the time, he wasn't even consciously aware of.

But Todd would’ve been lying if he said there was a precise moment that he could attribute it all to. In Todd’s experience, A revelation like love often comes far too late, at which point it's already been true for years.

It was an unspoken truth that he loved Neil long before he ever said it or even knew it introspectively. It seemed absurd to search for a particular event with which to mark its conception in his mind. It was just true.

Besides, it's not as if simply knowing the opportunity was there would’ve been enough to make Todd as undaunted as he would have needed to be to have taken it. Todd has always been one to let the grass grow around his feet, as it were.

He can’t remember a time when he wasn’t chronically plagued by his own anxieties, even if they’d become more manageable over time. Even in the first few nights of sharing each other's beds at Welton, Todd had been terrified. 

Terrified that one day he would somehow disappoint the boy sleeping soundly next to him.

That feeling of knowing your fears are but illogical figments of your own imagination, yet being paralyzed by them nonetheless was one that visited Todd all too often. Knowing their existence to be one of his own creation didn’t make them go away or their presence in his mind any less palpable.

The older he got, the freer from his own anxiety he became and the more able he was to articulate what it was that was bothering him. He still struggled sometimes, with people especially, to accept their praise without being distrusting of it.

Every time his poetry was commended, every acclamation he received for writing it initially felt hollow and insincere, regardless of who it was from - Neil (among others) being the occasional and marvelous exception.

Todd remembers sitting in the cluttered study of his retired English teacher, John Keating, one Christmas in college when he and Neil had visited John and his wife in Paris. That evening, Neil had taken John’s wife, Natalia, to see a play in the city, after a failed attempt to cook some foreign kind of Mediterranean shellfish, the name of which neither of them could remember, while Todd presented Keating with a juvenile version of what was now his first published book of poetry. 

That night Todd had confessed to Keating his anxiety about publishing, in response to which Keating had given him an immeasurably important piece of advice:  
“Todd, your poetry is...excellent.” He had said. “But, even so, you’re allowing your writing to become mangled by the opinions of others. So..” he paused solicitously before continuing on to say, “So stop trying to seek their approval. Write the poetry that you want to write in the fleeting time you have to do it in. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Todd.”

Todd had stayed awake late that night, ruminating in his teacher’s words.

Around 1 or so Neil returned quietly so as not to wake Todd (who he assumed to be asleep). Well, Neil was as quiet as he could manage to be in an unfamiliar house that wasn’t theirs, which was not quiet at all in actuality. After he loudly crashed into an armchair, cursing, Todd turned on the light as if to put him out of his misery. 

Still on the floor, Neil looked to Todd like a guilty raccoon caught in a dumpster. He laughed and got up. “Hiiii,” he said impishly. Todd laughed. “I...uhh..I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Oh-Oh you didn't?” Todd said through laughter. “It's okay, I was already awake. How was the play?” 

They talked for a while as Neil got ready for bed, and when he was, Todd was there waiting for him. As they lay there in the dark, Todd told him about Keating’s advice, to which Neil replied, “He’s right, you know.” Todd met him with silence.

“God, Todd you care so much what people think of you. People you don't even know” Neil said with exasperation. “You’re a brilliant writer, but even if you weren’t, that’s no reason not to publish; the experience of poetry is different for everyone, and not everyone is going to love yours, no matter how well it's written.” He paused, and smiled as he said, “I guess you’re just going to have to write it anyway.” Todd didn't even have to look at Neil to know the exact puckish grin that filled his face.

Neil had been right of course, as he often was. So was Keating. And Todd found that, once he actually started writing for himself, the reactions to his poems had little effect on him. The freedom alone was worth all the criticism in the world - not that there had ever been much anyways. 

That winter in Paris was one of Todd’s favorites; spending the evenings holed up with Keating in the study, writing with a new-found exhilaration, and spending the early mornings with Neil, walking through the city to the bakery or the market, or even just walking for the sake of doing so on a snowy day as Neil happily chattered on about whatever play he’d seen the night before and which ones he planned to put on when they returned to New York.

Todd likes to do this occasionally; to sit peacefully and just let the memories play in his mind like a movie. To wallow in the nostalgia of them all.

He calls to mind one particular Wednesday morning, a few years ago, they’d been eating breakfast in their apartment, and were spontaneously joined by Charlie, Knox and Steven, who all just so happened to be in the city at the same time. 

At least this is what they all told him but there was no doubt in Todd’s mind that Neil had secretly orchestrated the breakfast; a birthday surprise of sorts without calling it that - as he knew that Todd hated birthdays. 

Neil, who couldn’t cook despite his best efforts, had gone to the bakery two blocks over and filled the kitchen with various muffins, juices, pastries, and fruits of all kinds.

Todd walked out to the sight of the four of them crowded in the tiny apartment, Neil the only one sitting at the scarred kitchen table (the top of which was actually a door that Charlie had stolen from Welton senior year that Jeff had then turned into a table when they were fresh out of college and too broke to buy any furniture)

Neil sat at the end of the door, his reading glasses were on, a newspaper in his right hand, his left directing Steven to the top right cabinet. Todd watched lovingly as Knox spilled juice all over everything; drenching Neil’s newspaper.

Occasionally, Todd was aware of how poetic and lovely his life could be as he was actually living it. This was one of those moments. The kitchen, in all its chaos, was perfect. Neil really had managed to make a good day where there wasn’t one before, but, then again, he managed to do that everyday.

In fact, Todd’s birthday was known between the two of them simply as “the anniversary of the infamous flying desk set” - one of which Neil got him every single year. And every year they took the desk set up to the roof and set it free to soar out over the city, as it was destined to do.

That original desk-set night at Welton was the first night they had ever slept together, which was now also a quintessential part of the day’s traditions. 

The now-routine of opening day (for whatever play Neil was directing at the moment) also had come to feel like tradition to Todd.

His mind wanders to the opening day of As you Like it, the first play Neil had ever directed. 

That morning they had been sitting in the kitchen, Neil with his reading glasses and newspaper as per usual. Despite it being a seemingly mundane morning, a sense of impending excitement (and also doom) hung thick in the air. 

They could both feel it, and Todd, who knew Neil would have a lot on his mind that day, and plenty of last minute catastrophes to handle, had planned to spend the day with Charlie in the city, but they’d both be sure to be back by 6:30 to get their seats, of course.

Todd, who was already on his way out the door, leaned over Neil’s right shoulder to whisper in his ear, “I like this place and could easily waste my time in it.” Not having read the play since college, this was one of the few lines he could still remember. 

Neil smiled. Todd then leaned into Neil’s other shoulder and said, “This fool’s paradise is wonderful enough for me.”

An equal match for Todd’s wit, Neil replied through a smile. “Ah, the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,” he said, not even taking the time to think or to look up from his newspaper. He went on, “love is but the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise, Todd.”

Now truly out of lines, Todd paused for a moment to think. Finally, he said the best thing he could think of, “We're fools whether we dance or not, Neil, so we might as well dance.” 

Feeling giddy, he twirled around the kitchen dreamily, “On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd,” he exclaimed, now quoting Byron.

Neil looked at him and laughed, “You know, you and Keating…” He trailed off happily. “One and the same, love…one and the same.”

Todd smiled and went to kiss the top of Neils head on his way out the door. Neil tilted his head back and caught Todd’s lips with his own. 

Todd marvels about how many of his memories somehow include that scratched kitchen table that really wasn’t one; some of his best ideas and memories founded on its surface. It was strange, the table now seemed so small in his memory. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, he supposes.

Todd absentmindedly reminisces on like this as he lays awake in bed, silently listening through the sounds of the city. Listening for the front door opening or anything to suggest that Neil needs him. 

Neil often wakes up troubled in the night, haunted by one thing or another. Todd isn’t worried, it has only been a few minutes; the other side of the bed not yet cold. He closes his eyes, slowly drifting out of consciousness. 

A few minutes later, the sound of the living room window opening jolts him awake. Still half asleep, he turns over, arm reaching out for a body that isn't there. 

Just over his left shoulder he can faintly see snow falling. 

Todd gets up silently, taking his green flannel robe that's hanging on the bedpost and wrapping it around himself tightly. 

In the living room, Neil is standing in front of the open window, the scratchy blanket (which wasn’t actually an afghan) enveloping him. Neil looks pensive, but his brow unfurrows as soon as he turns to Todd.

Todd stares at the snow as he walks over to Neil, putting his arm around him under the horrible blanket. He murmurs something about the snow and smiles as Neil leans into his shoulder.

“You saved me, you know that?” Neil whispers. Todd smiles; half fond, half concerned, wishing he could save Neil from so much more than he already has.

Neil kisses him reassuringly, as if trying to ease his worry.

Todd looks at him for a long time, just loving him for a moment. Todd has made sure Neil knows he’s there if he needs him, and, satisfied with this, Todd turns back to the window, watching the snow fall like a film on the street.

“I love you so much” Neil purrs quietly into his shoulder. Todd, mesmerized by the snow that's slowly swallowing the city in its silence, doesn’t reply, but a smile plays on his lips.

The view overwhelms him with serene contemplation, and Todd relishes in it. “Like a dream,” he murmurs, thinking it outloud; his eyes still on the falling snow.

He is drawn back into reality by the subtle, undemanding tug on his sleeve. He happily falls back into his life, into Neil, and into the (now cold) bed that's waiting for them.

Laying on his side, Todd looks not out the window, but at Neil; laying next to him.

Neil looks back at him lovingly, “That we have but slumbered here, as these visions did appear?” he whispers.

“They wouldn't be too bad, all things considered,” Todd returns, considering this through a smile.

Neil, sharing the sentiment, drifts off to sleep next to him.

No, not bad at all.


End file.
